


History of Touches

by ThereminVox



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 02:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20734652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox





	History of Touches

* * *

The Autumn wind tastes stale of a lover’s farewell.

_Taken from us too soon. _

You think fate has dealt you a cruel hand, selfish and stubborn this deduction.

Something precious has been wrested from you on this Halloween night. By merciless pressure of ill humoured jesters, the life (or lie) you succeeded in escaping ages ago, has arrived a phantom in the fevered shadows, to haunt and fright.

On this harrowing eventide, your spectres of terror presented themselves, upon gory stage, as the Valeska Brothers. Punctuation marks of polarity. If the former was an exclamation mark, the latter was an ellipsis. And, oh, how you favoured the tempered latter.

**Jeremiah**: _coy and studious. The human calculator with an occasional bent for 8008135 as a solution._

**Jerome**: _coarse and jocose. An endearing, if not pestering, jongleur or tregetour. _

Only identical on the surface.

_But, inside…_

Inside, your heart palpitated solely for the boy whose mind was a maze simulation. In binding affinity, you both were attuned, in equilibrium, to mechanics, as well as the circuitry and structural design that animates them.

While both were handsome, witty, intelligent young men, it was true that Jerome was the less “refined” relish. A blade hastened in forging and hence unfit for battle. The abominable lovechild of a Shakespearean fool and Devil’s advocate. Ultimately, an acquired taste.

An occasional dosage of his mixture would suffice. Likened to that of an analgesic, comforting in times of emotional or physical strife. Made redundant once symptoms abate.

You could never have guessed that Jeremiah would ultimately succumb to corruption by his brother’s sleight of hand.

_No_. ‘Succumb’ wasn’t the right term… Yet, you hesitate to colour Jeremiah as Jerome’s “victim”. For all his devilry, Jerome was not the antagonist of this tale. Nor Jeremiah. Neither preceding nor succeeding “the incident”.

A predicament of unprecedented proportions that you’d have never been informed if not by ill-fated reunion. Hardly any time to reminisce on a delirious past when you were, quite literally, clinging to the Jaws of Life. Tracing dark circles with lulling caress of eyelash, you sympathise with the sickly shade of purple accentuating your hooded gaze of exhaustion.

With a trio of laboured breaths, chest beating arrhythmic, tears threatening to bead, curtains part to unveil the main act.

“_Well, warden… Looks like we got ourselves a runner._” Jerome’s predatory gaze betrays his sulking facade.

“A shame, isn’t it.” Jeremiah is stood next to him, enhanced in feature, cocking his head; a patronising parent to wayward child.

“_Idiots_.” A shallow mutter squeezed between gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry. What was that? I don’t think the walls could hear you.”

You sigh in plain sight, unamused by the boys’ incessant attempts to evoke dread from a mere breath of proximity.

“_I wasn’t trying to escape._” The deluge of sleep deprivation you feel is immeasurable. By no means were you a closet masochist. Self-proclaimed and proud. But, even the cruelest sadist should have the courtesy to spare an aid of mercy.

“I _thought_ we were playing hide-and-seek.” You’re only vaguely annoyed by how pathetic you sound. “Is that not what we agreed to?”

“Oh, we know that, darlin’. We’re just messin’ with ya. All part of the game.”

Jerome begins to stalk forth, Jeremiah following suit in seductive symmetry.

“Surely, you should know by now that we prefer to season our appetizer _before_ the main course.”

“_No…_” Too weary to glare daggers, you offer a pitiful whine in hopes of the slightest kiss of clemency. “_I can’t. Please._”

“Now, now. We taught you better than that.”

Suspense seeps in rivulets, competing with the perspiration of your pits as Jerome hauls you by the arm. Evidence of how sweaty you were remains an imprint against the wall once leaned, spaghetti arms submitting without protest, slinging to rest around Jerome’s shoulders as the living scab hoists you to a full standing position.

Jeremiah seems visibly displeased with this action, rolling his eyes, lips pressing to a firm line.

“_Well, don’t manhandle her, you ape_.”

He was actually being surprisingly gentle.

Nevertheless, Jerome matches his intensity with a menacing jeer.

“For once, I actually agree with someone other than myself. We should let our pet rest.”

Jeremiah ignores him, leonine eyes having been affixed to you the entire time. Swiftly, he moves to extract you from his brother’s hold with the gentlest of measures. Jerome groans with the essence of a petulant child, rather uncharacteristically, to anyone unfamiliar. You, however, could practically be considered a third sibling, given your intimate history. A history too intimate to yield favour to familial relation.

You could still recall the exact night your innocence was divested. The three of you, in solidarity, could share sentiment in that moment. A busy day for Lila Valeska, it had been. Popular demand for her serpent’s dance commanded overtime to exaggerate the usual work hours. A quarter after the witching hour signalled her return, but preceding that…

Naturally, Jeremiah attempted to make the ordeal as slow and romantic as possible. Jerome, himself, was equally tame in his approach, albeit still the more sexually charged of the two and hence given to be rough and rushed compared to Jeremiah’s ethereal touch. Hesitant yet eager to please. Of course, he was your “first”. Much to Jerome’s chagrin. The activity was quick and vanilla. Nothing too kinky. No butt stuff. _Yet_.

They took turns in tender, loving embrace. A trio of awkward limbs, laughing and learning along the way. Needless to say, you were well rested the following morning, despite a lack of prolonged exertion. Jerome insisted on round two but Jeremiah was quick to defog his glasses and argue against that, prioritising a decent six hour time window for slumber.

Secretly, those lens reflected the opposite of a desire for fatigued eyes.

Now, being sandwiched between them once more, appearing as one close-knit polyamorous couple, it felt as if you were poised to repeat that night of sexual awakening. While the lecherous remnants of your mind keen at the prospect, your body ached something fierce from the gruelling number of laps covered throughout Jeremiah’s convoluted sketch of a labyrinth.

You could see the pulsing light inching closer with each leaden step. (You’d be crawling if not for the human crutches about either flank).

A brilliant yet terrible light, presiding in infamy. Notorious for being the beacon that tethers you and the twins to a ritualistic dance, sans clothing. Any other night would leave you quivering with anticipation. Sex was an act you’d never tire with either fallen angel.

Tonight, however, you dread the infernal generator’s presence.

“You _are_ letting me rest, right?”

Jeremiah hugs you closer, ever the possessive flesh to Jerome’s competitive bone. His arm wrapped around your neck, hand pressed against your breast, closing the widened gap with a grunt. Jeremiah dismisses his twin’s childish behaviour.

The irony.

“Have we ever lied to you?”

Something, something…. verisimilitude trumps precaution.

“Don’t fret, pet.” Jerome ushers you into the dimly lit room, Jeremiah pulling you in further. Enticing the senses from blinding bright to a near absence of light, piercing the veil to darkness is almost enough to have you collapsing to a heap, drool dribbling from a sleep, deep.

The bed beckons your increasingly drowsy form.

“Can’t have our sleeping beauty reduced to an insomniac.”

Jerome strides over to a bending Jeremiah, hovering over his open drawer, landing a swift and sudden smack to the ass. The victim, in question, abruptly straightens, jaw clenching both in slight anguish and vexation. Immediately, the expression is exchanged for a softer gaze when he catches yours again, allowing his brother’s brash forearm to weigh upon his shoulder as they both look upon you like a proper feast to be prayed, but not preyed, and dined upon.

“But, before that…”

Stepping behind Jeremiah, he urges him forward, hands squeezing each shoulder, an utterly mischievous leer partially obscured behind luscious streak of green highlights painting (perhaps tainting) a raven’s ink of hair.

A flicker of the “old” Jeremiah glints in his anomalous eye as he offers a fleeting glance of apology.

Jerome parries, with his wicked tongue, a sealing kiss of doom.

“_We’ll just have to **tickle** the orgasm out of you.”_


End file.
